


Unpleasant News and Witty One-Liners

by bluebeholder



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Flash Fic, More characters to be added, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pairings May Vary, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:27:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23086255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Exactly what it says in the tags. Dragon Age flash fiction, of varying pairings, ratings, and characters. "Choose Not To Use" only applies because I'll put any applicable warnings in by chapter.
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from Alistair. Who knows: maybe he'll actually show up in one of these fics! 
> 
> I know everybody hates these, but I'd rather have one consolidated place for all these (they're under 1,000 words each!) than fill up my whole profile with every fic I write. I'm generating A LOT of DA fic. Putting it in one place seems sensible. 
> 
> **1:** Anders/Merrill, original prompt from statueofsirens on tumblr for the prompt "a kiss in the dark". Warnings: implied claustrophobia and blood magic.

The cave-in was so sudden that Merrill never saw it coming. One moment she was arguing with Anders in a hallway of this ancient part of Darktown, the next the ceilings were coming down and the floors were shaking and Hawke was yelling their names.

Now it’s silent.

The space between the stones is narrow and dark as pitch, since they had no lantern, and neither of them have the mana to sustain a magical light. Merrill doesn’t want to argue with Anders anymore. And it’s not wise to do blood magic when she can’t see what she’s cutting, anyway.

“How long ago did Hawke say she’d be back?” Anders asks after a while.

“It was a while,” Merrill murmurs, drawing her fingertips over the stone. The air tastes dusty, disturbed. It’s surprisingly cold down here, despite the heat of Kirkwall’s summer outside.

“She’d better come back soon,” Anders mutters. Merrill hears him draw a deep sigh, with a shaky exhale. “Can’t stand this.”

“At least we’re not alone,” Merrill offers tentatively.

After a moment of fumbling, a large, warm hand comes to rest atop hers on the ground. “There’s that,” Anders says.

This thing between them is still so new that they don’t dare speak of it in daylight. Merrill sometimes wonders if it exists, when they’re still so capable of fighting with each other. If it isn’t blood magic, it’s Anders being ignorant and self-absorbed. Merrill can’t stand the way he talks sometimes.

But she’s learning to hear him better, perhaps, because in the soft sweet nothings he whispers when he visits her in the alienage she hears “I’m afraid,” and “I’m sorry,” woven between the lines. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. The world is foreign and terrible and full of people who wish him harm.

Merrill understands that.

In the darkness of this caved-in tunnel, it’s not difficult to be bold. Merrill fits herself into Anders’ lap, settling snugly against his chest and the circle of his arms. Anders holds her easily, his chin resting atop her head. It feels safe.

He’s ridiculously tall, even by the standards of humans, which means Merrill feels perfectly comfortable using him for a seat. Anders is also very warm, and his heavy quilted coat is soft. He draws one trembling breath before relaxing, a little, and Merrill is glad to have provided a little comfort. She feels better, too, less alone in the dark.

The kiss that follows seems only natural.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **2:** Carver/Merrill, written for factorykat for the prompt "tipsy kiss." Contains brief Hawke/Isabela.

It’s another night at the Hanged Man, and while Merrill usually feels happy and welcome here, tonight…not so much. It’s been a long day, a hard day, a day of frustrations and broken mirrors. She wanted to laugh and drink and forget.

But Isabela is on Hawke’s lap, the two women looking at one another like they’ll run off to sea at any moment, Hawke’s hand tangled in Isabela’s hair as if they’re not in full view of the whole Hanged Man. Anders and Fenris are arguing, of course, but it’s a comfortable argument they’ve had a hundred times before, with no fire behind their words. Donnic and Varric are in an intense game of chess, making eye contact with every move of every piece; Aveline and Sebastian are talking serious business and looking like they’ll depart at any moment.

Merrill feels very small and very alone.

She draws a line in the condensation on the table from her small mug of whatever was on tap tonight, wondering if she should just go. No one would notice. “They forget about me every time,” she murmurs to herself, folding her arms on the table and sinking down to put her chin on them.

A moment later, the chair beside her scrapes back and Merrill jumps as Carver drops into the seat, ale in hand. He sets the tankard on the table. Runs his fingers through his hair. Coughs.

“You, uh. Looked lonely.”

Merrill sits up again, looking at him. His cheeks are a little flushed from a night of drinking, but oh, he looks handsome in that Grey Warden uniform. He was passing through on business, but stopped in Kirkwall to see Hawke. And of course Hawke coaxed him to go out—“for old time’s sake.”

“I was a bit,” Merrill admits softly.

Carver gazes at her, very earnest. “I thought maybe you’d like company.”

“I was just about to go,” Merrill says. She glances around—they’re still not looking at her, any of them. “I wouldn’t like to be a bother.”

“Then—let me walk you home,” Carver says.

Merrill looks at him for a moment longer, heart fluttering a little. She’d always liked him, before he went to the Wardens, and now…serious and grown-up… “All right.”

The walk back to the alienage is surprisingly peaceful, for a Kirkwall night. Even the boldest would-be robbers don’t wish to interfere with a Grey Warden. Merrill isn’t even sure they’re taking the quickest way back: it seems they’ve been wandering Kirkwall for hours, talking softly of anything and everything. Of her work, of course, and of Carver’s adventures with the Wardens; but also how much Carver wishes he could see a griffon, and of Merrill’s attempts to make a garden on the roof, and…she doesn’t remember the rest, only that it was very fine indeed.

Carver is still a little tipsy when they arrive at her door. “I suppose this is good night,” he says, leaning on the wall and looking at her intently.

“Thank you for the walk,” Merrill says.

As Merrill turns to step inside, Carver catches her by the wrist. She turns, inquisitive, only to find his lips pressed to hers. It’s a shock, but Merrill closes her eyes and savors it. He might taste of alcohol, but…she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t dreamed of this before.


End file.
